


The Devil Will Find Work For Idle Hands

by charmlesstrans (casketgowns)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Gen, Humor, Multi, Post-Avengers (2012), Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casketgowns/pseuds/charmlesstrans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically Tony gets caught dancing to the Smiths, and the other Avengers find that extremely funny.<br/>---<br/>My first attempt at writing an Avengers/MCU fic! It was really enjoyable even if I don't think my humor writing skills are up to par. I also totally fucked up the canon because I wanted to have my total of two vague references to stucky...</p><p>Also I tagged this as multi for relationships but even though Tony and Bruce are together in it and Steve and Bucky are together, that isn't the main focus of the story. Enjoy!</p><p>(Title is lyrics from "What Difference Does It Make?" by, you guessed it, The Smiths).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil Will Find Work For Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Hayley for beta reading :)

Everyone has their own tastes. Everyone has their own opinions and preferences and Tony Stark is okay with that. People are different, and that’s just how the world works. Without it, life would be boring, mundane, possibly unable to function. Tony Stark knows this, and so he tries, for the sake of the greater good of the world and humanity and all that bullshit, to respect the music taste of each and every one of his teammates.

He tells himself that it’s fine when, at the crack of dawn in the mornings, the kitchen will often be filled with the sounds of Steve Rogers back from his 5 am run, cooking egg whites and blaring Frank Sinatra like it’s no big deal; like everyone in the state of New York agrees that Sinatra is the long reigning king of all musical endeavors. Whatever. Tony will deal. He’ll get his coffee and a protein bar and retreat into the blissful, solitary depths of his lab, cranking Metallica and The Clash for the duration of the day.

He convinces himself that he can handle it when, on long flights to their next Location Of Avenging, Natasha wants to turn on her weird, sad, folk music. He doesn’t understand it at all, cause who the fuck wants to listen to Sufjan Stevens as a precursor to kicking ass and taking names? Especially Natasha. He at least expected some thrashing, angry girl metal. He’d even be okay with Hole, or goddamn Joan Jett for christ’s sake, but no. He’ll let her totally bum the team out with songs about bittersweet childhood memories and...being gay for Jesus? Tony’s still trying to figure out the lyrics to John, My Beloved. It fucking sucks, and team morale would really take a boost if he could get some Black Sabbath blasting in the ol’ quinjet, but whatever. As much as he really would love it, Tony can’t have his way all the time.

Sparring really takes a turn for the worst though when Clint wants to play fucking Limp Bizkit, or Slipknot, or Disturbed. He tries to console himself with the knowledge that, yes, the music is at least heavy, (kind of a loose interpretation but Tony will buy it if it gets Barton to stop whining), loud, and aggressive, but there’s really nothing more irritating than trying to maintain some semblance of good strategy and attack skill when he has Corey Taylor screaming “people = shit!” in his ear at top volume. Real edgy, Barton.

At the end of the day, he always gets over it. He can deal with these assholes and their shitty music choices as much as they want, because he’s always safe in the comfort that he can hide away in his lab and bask in the glory of his metal, 70s punk, and good old fashioned rock n roll for as long as he wants. 

Well, at least, until Bruce comes in.

Tony loves Bruce. He loves his brown eyes and when they light up at the realization of something surprising in a challenging equation or experiment. He loves it when the corners of them crinkle as he laughs at some stupid joke Tony told just to get his attention. He loves his curly hair; how soft it is when he cards his fingers through it lazily as they’re dozing off on the floor of the lab after a long night of….calculating….and building robots. He loves how Bruce always smells earthy, like sandalwood, or pine. He loves how he’s stubborn; how he tells Tony,

“No,  _ no _ , bad idea. Physics doesn’t work like that, Tony. And why am I even bothering to explain this to you?” 

But he’ll give in every time to any hair-brained scheme and statistically impossible idea Tony ever comes up with. 

Tony loves Bruce. But what he doesn’t love is Bruce’s penchant for 80s alternative post-punk.

Before Bruce, the lab was a strict, Morrissey, Robert Smith, and David Byrne free-environment. After Bruce, well, Tony assumed it would stay that way and Dr.Banner would just have to get over the Pantera. It was a part of working with Tony Stark. Bruce rarely complained though, only when he needed to “really concentrate, Tony, could you please turn the music down for like 20 minutes?” 

He would look at Tony with those big, warm, brown eyes and Tony was pretty sure no one could resist those no matter how highly they thought of themselves.

Bruce was polite at first, but that’s only because he had to be. After the first time they banged, (right there on the workbench in the lab by the way), Bruce demanded the rights to the stereo. 

“Not all the time, but just sometimes. No offense but I kind of hate Motley Crue.”

“Offense taken. Out.”

“Tony...”

“I mean it, Banner. No one insults the genius of Nikki Sixx and Tommy Lee in the presence of Tony Stark and expects to get laid again.”

Tony, had, admittedly, been wrong about that. 

The first few times, Tony had made fun of Bruce immensely. He imitated Morrissey’s voice and rolled his eyes every time a Joy Division song came on. 

“Really, Bruce, you actually like this? _Meat Is Murder_? Who names an album that and expects other people to take him seriously. And, since when are you goth? Be honest. And is it going to affect our relationship?” 

But, after a while, it lost all its fun. Bruce never acted upset or annoyed when Tony insulted his song choices anyway. Sometimes, he didn’t even look in Tony’s direction, too engrossed in whatever he was working on at the moment. 

They began to alternate days, and eventually settled into a routine. Now, at least, Tony can brace himself every other day for inevitable gloom and vague British culture references he pretends to understand. 

And, so, what if he maybe, possibly, accidentally--unbeknownst to anyone else--has begun to enjoy it just a little bit?

So what if, on days when most of the team is off on various missions, or sleeping, or just far enough away from the lab that they could never hear what’s going on inside, Tony quietly instructs JARVIS to put on The Smiths’ self-titled album and play it front to back. 

So what.

Tony will admit to enjoying his guilty pleasures in abundance. Maybe not in front of god and all of the Avengers, but, JARVIS will keep any secret. Plus, can he really be blamed for the fact that “This Charming Man” is, to put it simple enough, a  _ fucking good song?  _

He doesn’t think he can ever bend to the, frankly bizarre, nature of the Talking Heads that Bruce has such an affinity for. He’ll certainly never be caught dead listening to Frank Sinatra of his own accord, or having a satisfying cry session to the soft, feathery depression jamz of Sufjan Stevens. Not in a million years will Tony make the conscious decision to turn on  _ any  _ band that describes themselves as “nu metal” or “rap rock”, but, maybe Bruce is onto something with all the Morrissey. 

He’s working on blueprints for a prototype of a new bot to serve drinks at the bar in the common room during parties, and he’s in the fucking zone. Clint and Nat are away from the tower on a mission together, Sam and Thor are watching a movie rooms away,  Steve and Bucky are probably having amazing, incredibly kinky, super soldier sex; just what he always assumes they’re doing, and Bruce is upstairs sleeping after a previous all-nighter in the lab with Tony going over the math for some weird experiment involving...bees? He doesn’t really remember what all of that was about. Tony kind of stopped paying attention after the experiment evolved into Bruce’s highly important analysis of his neck and all the spots he can connect his mouth to that will make Tony squirm and flush pink from his cheeks to the tops of his ears--not that he’ll ever admit to that last part.

He’s bent over the worktable, humming along to the sound of “Nowhere Fast” in the background, and it’s fine. It’s fine because it’s, truly, a masterpiece of a song, and no one will ever know if Tony shamelessly shakes his hips and belts out the “ _ and when I’m lying in my bed, I think about life and I think about death, and neither one particularly appeals to me _ ” line. Tony really can’t help it that lyrics which speak the vaguest notion of suicidal tendencies coupled with a cheery, jaunty guitar make him feel like dancing. He fiddles with some spare parts, and the discography shuffles on.  
  


* * *

 

 

Bruce stretches tired joints awake, and lazily reaches for his glasses perched on the bedside table. He sneaks a glance at the clock and it reads a damning 3 PM. He blames Tony for the fact that they were up until the most offensive hours, and shuffles out of bed.

The kitchen, as well as the rest of the tower, is surprisingly quiet as Bruce brews green tea. He fills a large mug up and trudges toward the elevator, preparing for the inevitable stream of data and dialogue that will bombard him as soon as he crosses the threshold from elevator doors to lab doors. He’s willing to soldier through it though, for the excited and passionate kiss that never fails to follow. 

The elevator dings open, and Bruce hears the faintest, familiar sound.

Normally, on a fairly standard day like today, Bruce would expect the ear-splitting shrieks of ACDC to be pumping through the lab walls and fading into the hallway outside. 

He almost drops his mug when he turns the corner. 

“This Charming Man” is, for what it’s worth,  _ blaring  _ through Tony’s speakers, and there’s Tony himself, right in the middle of the room, singing along with eyes closed and all.

Bruce, against his better judgement, audibly snorts. He quickly covers his mouth in shock, but of course Tony didn’t hear it. He’s much too occupied, shaking hips and twirling a screwdriver around in his fingers rhythmically. Somehow Bruce concludes that this shouldn’t be such a turn on, but he’s not ready to admit that just yet. 

Tony’s in just a black tank top, lean muscle stretching the fabric and capable forearms rippling as he’s bent over the work table...tightening screws? At least, that’s what it looks like to Bruce, and wow, that sounds like some sort of innuendo. The tank top is tucked into tighter jeans than Bruce ever remembers Tony wearing, and it’s a sin to ignore just how good his ass looks in them.

Bruce’s mouth is embarrassingly dry, and his sweatpants are just a little too tight, but he  _ cannot  _ ruin this perfect opportunity to expose Tony and what he no doubt thought he could keep a secret. He backs slowly down the hallway on the off chance that Tony would be able to hear even the slightest sound, and clambers back into the elevator, giggling all the while.   
  


It seems that Bruce’s discovery has brought all the rest of the Avengers out of the woodwork, like some kind of ridiculous superhero echolocation. Either that or it’s just a gracious coincidence that as soon as he emerges from the lab into the common room, Natasha and Clint are returning from their mission, Steve and Bucky are sauntering in with all too telling smirks plastered to their faces and Sam and Thor’s movie is over.

In that moment, Bruce thanks any divine being that could possibly be watching over him.

He relays what he saw to the other members of the team, still unable to keep from laughing at the very thought of it.

Natasha’s curling smirk that spreads a gleeful evil across her entire cool visage is all Bruce needs to see. 

She shares a secret flash of eyes with Barnes that Bruce is sure could only be the product of some ancient Russian spy code, and addresses the team.

“I have the  _ perfect  _ plan,” she purrs in a voice dripping with mischief and ill intent.

Barnes smirks wide and gives a nod like he’s already read her mind.

 

* * *

 

It’s Wednesday, and Tony and Bruce woke up a half an hour ago after a rather busy morning of sleepy make outs that may have resulted in a blowjob or two. Tony’s not really counting.

He’s organizing parts, and sifting through his blueprints for the bar bot, listening to the soft pad of Bruce’s moccasins shuffling around behind him. He smiles to himself, thinking that there isn’t anything more domestic.

There’s a pause in the calming noise, and Bruce comments, “I think I left my tea upstairs.”

Tony tucks his pencil behind his ear, and distractedly hums, “Better go get it.”

Tony hears Bruce moving around behind him, and then he’s right up next to him, with warm hands on his shoulders, and yep, that’s Bruce pressing a soft kiss to his temple and grinning against his hairline. “Be back soon,” he says, and it’s not meant to be suggestive but Tony has a perpetual case of mind in the gutter. 

His cheeks also get just the tiniest bit hot, but no one, least of all Bruce, needs to know that. 

As Bruce’s footsteps retreat out of the lab, Tony stretches his arms up over his head and rolls a creak out of his neck. 

“JARVIS, play _London Calling_ please. Whole album. Beginning to beautiful end.”

 

“Certainly sir.”

 

Tony spreads his blueprints out clearly, encompassing the entirety of the table, and hangs his head down to begin diligently working. His mind is already abuzz, graphs and formulas and tables popping up as he awaits the throaty growl of Joe Strummer to stimulate his thinking powers even further. 

Except he never hears it.

What he hears instead, is the most grating abuse to the ears he could ever think up. It’s the petulant whine of, a  _ child,  _ even worse, a  _ teenager.  _ At least that’s what it sounds like to him, as the barrage continues to murder his eardrums with lyrics about hating ex-girlfriends and the self-loathing that follows. 

_ “Tell all the English boys you meet about the American boy back in the states; the American boy you used to date who would do anything you say.” _

Tony could throw up. In fact, he could throw up on the stupid kid who wrote this song, and anyone who’s ever listened to it and enjoyed it.

“JARVIS, what the fuck is this?” 

“The song that’s currently playing is entitled “Jude Law and A Semester Abroad” and it’s by American rock band Brand New, off of their debut studio album,  _ Your Favorite Weapon _ , that was released in 2001. The album consists largely of power-chord heavy pop-punk songs, detailing the highs and lows of teenage--”

“No, no! God, just--cut the Wikipedia bullshit, please. Why the hell is this playing instead of, um, British punk band The Clash’s third studio album, _London Calling_ , released in 1979,” Tony mocks, standing up from his desk, and circling his workspace.

“This song is playing because practical jokes are proven to function well as a group bonding exercise sir,” JARVIS replies, and Tony could say it almost sounds smug.

“Romanoff,” Tony glowers.

“Correct,” JARVIS responds.

Tony’s in the elevator in minutes, and crashing into the common room to see the pitiful sight of the entire team lounging about the couches, attempting to pass off the action as some type of normality. 

He catches Bruce’s eye and glares rather pointedly. Bruce looks a little too satisfied, and a soft chuckle rolls out of his lips.

“Okay. Who’s idea was it to convince JARVIS to play the pussy teenage sad boy music? Because I’m searching for the humor and I don’t see it.” He stands with arms crossed and an expectant look. 

All of the Avengers turn around to face him, clearly trying not to laugh, but it’s Barnes who speaks. 

“Really, Stark? You  _ had _ to go and insult it like that? That’s a fucking solid album. Granted, it’s not as good as their third one, but it  _ is _ better to jam to.” The asshole is smirking devilishly, dirty hair dangling in his eyes and languid metal arm draping over the back of the sofa.

“Yeah, Tony, we thought you’d like it honestly. What with the fact that you’ve taken a sudden interest in The Smiths here lately. Brand New is somewhat of a more modern counterpart,” Natasha’s sly smile is downright sickening, and Tony can feel his skin crawl with annoyance.

“I take offense to the fact that you were spying on me, and then proceeded to intrude in my most humble of domains,” he manages to quip, avoiding the delicate subject of Morrissey for now. 

Natasha glances over at Bruce who’s perched on the edge of the sofa that she’s laying across. “For once I’m not the stealthiest one in the room.”

Tony looks at Bruce’s amused close-lipped smile that’s traveling up to his eyes. There’s a hint of mischief there that Tony never would’ve expected and the thought could almost send a wave of warm affection through his gut. Almost. He could possibly forgive them if those playful brown eyes are doing the convincing, but-- 

They hacked his AI to fucking play  _ emo music _ . 

“We’re breaking up, Bruce. Congratulations, you ruined the best relationship of your life because of a petty prank,” he says dryly, sauntering over to Bruce and wrapping an arm around his soft waist. Bruce shakes his head in that way he always does that seems to marvel at just how impossible Tony always is. 

“If you could’ve seen yourself dancing you would understand how funny all of this was,” he says. 

“I’m jealous that he even got to see it, to be honest. I  _ personally  _ think we should all be afforded a free concert. Dinner and a show,” Sam teases.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Wilson.” Tony bites back.

“I’m still offended that you called Brand New ‘pussy music’.” Barnes scoffs.

 

* * *

 

It’s a week later, and Bucky has been having some trouble with the arm lately. It feels sort of unaligned, gears sticking together and grinding when he tries to perform simple tasks. He takes a trip down to Tony for a timely repair.

The elevator doors slide open, and Bucky hears a familiar guitar intro that he knows by heart.

_ “Back in school they never taught us what we needed to know like how to deal with despair or someone breaking your heart. Twelve years I’ve held it all together, but a night like this is begging to pull me apart.”  _

Jesse Lacey is absolutely pouring his heart out over Tony’s loudspeakers, and Tony’s in the middle of the lab, nodding his head in time and belting the lyrics as if he’s known them all his life. Bucky  grins a satisfied grin, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, content to watch and unafraid of his presence becoming known.

Tony fucking yells the  _ “Don’t apologize! I hope you choke and die!”  _ line as soon as he happens to turn and face Bucky who is, admittedly, singing right along just as earnestly. Tony stops abruptly for a second, face turning red, and a personal life goal of Bucky’s--to see Tony Stark blush--has been met. 

  
Bucky chuckles, and just keeps singing along. Tony grins right back and decides that he can get used to some of the bands his friends like after all.


End file.
